WASABI, or An Ode to the Present State of Radio-Friendly Hip Hop in the Central Part of North America
[VERSE 1]
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Loitering in the work lobby is one of my favorite hobbies
My posse be Bobby and Robby and Favi and Javi and Rodney
Javi is Salvi, he rides in Mojave, Bobby’s got a Scottie and he speaks Punjabi
So sorry, I forgot to make copies and coffee so I got fired from jobby
I’m foxy, I cook on Hibachi, the old school I embody like I was Hitachi
Or back in the days of Atari approximately when computer disks were floppy
In Abu Dhabi, my money’s too wobbly, I’ll probably stop selling my body
Spun out my Ducati while racing Bugatti and watching Jumanji
Slid like ice hockey, rode the tsunami, next time I’ll get a Harley
I’m bobbin’, I’m mobbin’, I’m sobbin’, I’m robbin’, your mama’s a goblin
Hi-yo, Kemosabe, Have some Pocky and sake with Ken Watanabe
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Burn your tongue, man; we hot like tamales
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
We get our jollies from watching your follies
[VERSE 2]
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
I karate with Pilates hotties and oddly saw Paul Giamatti
Wore huaraches in Audis, I’m outtie with gaudy knock-kneed mommies
Polly pops Mollys in Raleigh with froggies and doggies and hoggies
Met Somalis in Mali, they said I was fobby and my back was too soppy
Boss said my first draft was sloppy and that my copy was choppy
So I drowned my sorrows in toffee and Yahtzi and beer that was hoppy
Returning this burger, this bun is too poppy and these fries are too soggy
Drinking Bacardi on tardy safaris, peaceful like Bob Marley and Mahatma Gandhi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
[VERSE 3]
When I first heard “Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace…”
I went kamikaze on Kawasaki canaverseray, and moved to Karachi
That song is ungodly, part of me knew it was written by no literati
Too simple, too raunchy, too tawdry, too tacky, motley like Liberace
Medulla oblongata got foggy and groggy, So sick, I need anitbodies
These dudes wreck the art, all sloppy and shoddy, like a boxy jalopy
All cocky, sayin’ poppycock worth less than tchotchkes and botched keys
All that moxie got them off track like a volley of derailed trolleys
Godspeed.
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Artists, aim high like Lockheed. Watch out for traps set by industry Cosbys
You’re too creative to be lazy, grind in lobbies like mariachis
Keep your shit tight, in sequence like your name’s Fibonacci
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
The Occidental Tourist / Neither Do I
The other night I played Russian Roulette with a firearm loaded with thoughts and dreams.
Pragmatic observation tells you it misfired.
The sooner I try to end the pain, the longer it stays.
But the world around me claims that it ain’t my time to die.
Wise others say otherwise.
Aquarius I am, water bearer to the world.
Why then am I thirsty?
Dehydration, I hear, ain’t the most pleasant of ways to go.
Glad I got some quarters in my pocket ’cause Lipton Brisk iced teas sell for 25 cents in Hell and I’m gonna need some.
Thank God.
God thinks. In God we trust.
But God doesn’t trust us. Just us.
I wouldn’t either.
Angels and Devils look alike to me.
Plus, the words “halo” and “horn” both begin with the letter H.
Hmmmm….
Driving.
I switch lanes accidentally between the occidental lane and the lane on the right.
I parallel park between good and evil.
But I still seem to get a ticket.
I’m always a little bit over the line.
So I traded in the ride for a pen and some paper.
But what good is that gonna do?
Is jotting down some words on a flat piece of processed wood gonna make my life better?
Writing poems to myself or others supposed to save me? Reverse the downward spiral my life’s taking?
Don’t think so. So don’t think.
2 heads are better than nothing. And I mean nothing.
2 heads only equal twice as many headaches and mental clutter.
I can do bad by my damn self.
I go off the beaten path, hoping to blaze a new trail of innovation.
Ending up only in the Neverglades with empty tanks of gas, momentum, and inspiration.
Incineration would probably be the best thing.
Might as well. I’m already burnt out.
From thinking how I could better society in my little way.
But trying to better society in little ways has the same effect as trying to raise the water level by crying in the ocean.
Or blowing into a hurricane so that it’ll change directions.
This blows. The list grows. Dismiss woes.
Society laughs last and loudest at those who don’t matter.
And since my progress regresses, this poem is really worth less than the piece of paper it’s written on.
Matter of fact, the only fact of this matter is that this whole thing doesn’t matter. Neither do I.
Trying’s like dying.
And I just don’t care anymore.
// May + Sept. 16, 2003 //
Die Young
We thought there was enough time
We were fools from the start
Moths attracted to a fickle flame
We’re gonna die young
Beautiful tragedy, sweetest poison
Killing a piece of me every day
Forever’s too short for love
We’re gonna die young
Songs of the immortal swim in air
Plush promises soften all hearts
Listen for eternity’s empty boast
We’re gonna die young
Remember when we were carefree
Shooting holes in the night sky til it bled sunshine
The new day dawns upon a setting sun
We’re gonna die young
Peering into your piercing eyes
Tracing your palm with my fingertip
Clock’s hands mold wrinkles in time
We’re gonna die young
Hope doesn’t live in this space
You can tell by the void in this soul
The bond we share has to sustain us
The more we love, the more we lose control
Speeding through past lives
Slowing down to breathe in all of you
Exhaling reflections and introspections
Scenic routes of you on lazy Sundays
Through all the good times
Through all the years, old and gray
I wish we had even more days
We’re gonna die young
A Potato Misunderstanding
When I go to post office, it seems like I’m always stuck behind someone who has never been to the post office before. They don’t know how to mail locally, domestically, or internationally. They don’t know where the tape is to seal their packages. They don’t know how to fill out any of the mailing labels or customs forms. These people are about as useless and outdated as…the post office.
Taken me a few years to figure this one out, but one of the people in my building smells like a racehorse zebra copulating with a gorilla that’s been doing jumping jacks for 5 hours straight while consuming a deadly mix of corn chips, vinegar, ass mildew, and 3-week-old egg salad.
Is it me, or do a lot of cat people have hair down to their ankles?
A few weeks ago, someone in California won the $1.6 billion Powerball drawing. There were 6 winners in Cali, Florida, and Tennessee, all receiving $528.8 million before taxes if they take the 29-year annuity, or a lump-sum payment of $327.8 million before taxes. The night of the announcement there was a ton of people cheering and going nuts at the Chino Hills 7-Eleven where the winning lottery ticket was sold. Why are all those people gathered around that 7-Eleven? They didn’t win. That’s like everyone going to Jerusalem and cheering and partying around the manger. That don’t mean you’re going to heaven, fool!
Can you have a headache when you are a headache?
I love how people bring their kids to work like we’ve never seen kids before. It’s almost like they’re saying, “Here, people, this is an example of a perfect, beautiful, obedient child. Take notes.” Sometimes there’s a smugness that accompanies these particular attention-seeking types. I don’t mind parents bringing their kids to work every now and then. Sometimes a parent has to. Baby sitters and the grandparents aren’t always available. However, if you’re going to bring your kid just to show off that measly runt in front of everyone because you’re insecure and you need a trophy to flash around to prove to us all that your sex organs and piping still works, then leave that kid at work so a real, more humble, more appropriate person can raise that kid up to be a decent human being, hopefully diverting the predestined route of his or her unfortunate gene pool.
Heard this joke from Deon Cole recently. Comedic gold:
“When I moved out to LA they told me I had to work out. I was, like, I don’t wanna do that. They gave me this trainer, and the dude was, like…The most important thing is, you can’t eat late at night or you’ll get fat. And I’m, like, forget that, you supposed to eat late at night. He was, like, No, you not. I’m, like, Well, why they put a light in the refrigerator?”
Girls don’t drink coffee with one hand. They tend to hold cups of coffee with both hands, which is weird because the cup ain’t that heavy and it’s 88 degrees outside.
Irony. Chapter 11 Books filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in 2005.
My friend’s grandfather was famous for saying, “It’s not the cough that carries you off, it’s the coffin they carry you off in.” Ironically, he died of a coughing fit/natural causes.
One day, I plan to meet a Filipina Girl Scout and order some Tagalongs in Tagalog.
Half-ass is always a funny term, as opposed to whole-ass. How about quarter-ass? Eighth-ass? Sixteenth-ass?
There’s an insurance agent in LA called Fred Loya. With that last name, you’d think he was born to be a lawyer.
Aspirin: It’ll heal your pain and kill your brain.
A midget giraffe is still 10-feet tall.
I need stronger pillows. My head flattens them all. There’s not a pillow in existence that can withstand the crushing, slow beat-down my head deploys on these soft, cottony clouds of sleep. I wear them all down. Down feathers, memory foam, whatever. This head of mine is a brown bowling ball, and pillows don’t stand a chance.
If you’re racist toward everyone, then you’re treating everyone fairly. Therefore, being racist toward everyone is not being racist.
My friend told me that he and his girlfriend went to a Latin dance club over the weekend. He remarked on how everyone was dancing Bachata. I’m familiar with Bachata from a trip I took to the Dominican Republic, so I asked him was it popular in Honduras, where he’s from. He gave me a puzzled look. I gave him one back. Later on, I found out that he didn’t hear me say Bachata. He heard “patata.” So we had spent about 5 to 10 minutes trying to explain and understand — in his broken English and my broken Spanish — that I was interested in the popularity of a dance in his home country, and not the popularity of Honduran potatoes.
Just where do you expect a walking, truck-driving skateboard to go?
The word cuisine rhymes with the word green and mean. Everyone knows this. Despite this, I think cuisine, on occasion, should adopt the long-i sound in place of the short-i sound. This should occur in special sentences, such as “I shall dine on this fine wine and sublime cuisine.”
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 
